


london duplex - 01.12.18

by nihilist_toothpaste



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: Arguments, Established Relationship, M/M, bc im a fucking sap, but like it's not even that angsty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-11
Updated: 2018-02-11
Packaged: 2019-03-16 13:19:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13637070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nihilist_toothpaste/pseuds/nihilist_toothpaste
Summary: dan has a threshold for quality, phil hates it





	london duplex - 01.12.18

**Author's Note:**

> this took me fucking ages to write, i think i spent collectively longer on it than my actual long fic and that’s probs pathetic. ahaha but turns out writing dnp fighting is legit hard as fuck. it was a fun challenge tho. hope someone out there vibes w it. ok bye x

“Dan?”

He registers the sound of Phil’s footsteps ringing on the stairs leading down from the lounge. The door of the bedroom opens a moment later. Dan barely glances up.

“I texted you,” Phil says.

Dan makes a noncommittal sound, keeping his eyes trained on his laptop screen. He scrolls a little, hovers over an image that looks promising, and debates whether to drag it into the ‘keep’ folder.

He hears Phil exhale loudly. “I just wanted to know if you ordered lunch. It’s past 2 already.”

Dan’s eyes flicker upwards to the clock in the top right of his screen. 2:28 pm. His stomach clenches a bit, knowing he was meant to order for them more than an hour ago.

Apparently he takes too long to answer, because a beat later Phil is sighing again heavily, muttering ‘never mind,’ and leaving the room, door closing firmly behind him.

**  
**Dan** : _i can throw something together w whatever we have in the kitchen?_

 **Phil** : _I’ve got it._

**  
Dan’s eyes zero in on the full stop. And then he tells himself he’s being ridiculous, worrying about punctuation in a text from his literal life partner.

What the fuck ever, he thinks, and minimizes the little iMessage window, sliding his notification settings back to do not disturb. He can’t be fucking bothered with domestic bickering over lunch of all things, especially not right now, as he scrolls through yet another 10, 20, 50 fan-submitted memes in rapid succession.

Mindlessly, he bites into the skin around his thumbnail, sucks on it a little as he starts to taste blood. The skin on his fingers and around his lips feels dry and cracked and he idly wonders how long it’s been since he’s drunk any water.

**  
The door swings open again a little while later.

Dan glances at the clock. 2:56 pm.

“Dan, for fuck’s sake—“

Dan looks up then, because it really is rare for Phil to drop an f-bomb in casual conversation, especially directed at him.

Phil looks a bit pink in the face. His glasses are on and his hair looks unkempt and damp. His expression is less than happy.

“Check your texts, yeah? I’ve got lunch. You need to eat.”

The condescension stings. Actually everything about Phil’s tone right now stings. Dan’s been looking at memes and prepping this video for so long he feels like he might start seeing double. He’s tired and he can’t stomach Phil’s cold irritation right now, or laugh it off like he might normally do.

He takes a deep breath and tries to quell his rising temper. “Right, sorry. You know I’ve got my notifications off so I can focus.”

But Phil’s not really listening. He’s already turning to head back up the stairs.

Dan rubs tiredly at his eyes, moves to disentangle himself from the big fur throw he’s buried under. He pauses a moment to run his hands through it, squeezing hard. There’s an ache in his chest he can’t quite explain.

**  
“How’d it get here so fast?” Dan asks.

“Hm?” says Phil, back turned to Dan as he unloads little boxes of food from the nondescript brown paper bag and rummages in the cabinet for some plates.

“The food. How’d it get here in, like, under 30 minutes?”

Their kitchen is flooded with the fragrant scent of chicken curry, and only then does Dan realize exactly how hungry he is.

“I didn’t get delivery," says Phil. "I went out."

Dan feels a pang of guilt at that, knowing Phil’s been slammed with work too, handling pretty much all of their planning calls and emails on his own today while Dan toils over his video.

The guilt is quickly replaced by irritation again when Phil slides him an empty bowl and retreats to the lounge with his own food and without another word to Dan.

Dan chews frustratedly on his chapped lips and scoops himself some curry and rice, filling up a mug with water. He dithers on the spot for a moment considering following Phil onto the sofa in the lounge and forcing him into conversation. But his pride gets the best of him and he decides to retreat for now, walking gingerly back down the stairs to their bedroom with his food.

**  
Groaning, Dan closes his computer and pushes it aside, flopping onto his back and digging the knuckles of his index fingers into the inner corners of his eyes. He moves to reach for his curry only to find the bowl empty, and then looks at his phone to find another hour elapsed. Apparently enough time to robotically finish his whole meal without realizing and to make all too little progress on writing this fucking video.

Back upstairs, he thinks, and hopes the movement will shake something in his system. Stretching his arms above his head as far as he can, he leans into the back stretch and then wrests himself up and off the bed.

He hates this stage of video-making, the unending hours staring at a blank document, willing words to pour out from some place deep within him and onto the page. It’s draining. It’s so fucking draining. As though for every small step forward, he needs to spend a minimum of six hours depleting himself emotionally and mentally and even physically, as he sacrifices food and sleep and everything else, all of it second priority to finishing his work and actually producing something worth being happy about, worth putting out into the world for millions and millions of hungry and critical eyes.

It’s fucking destructive actually, and after eight years of this he thinks he should know better, that he should be better at this thing that is and will continue to be his livelihood as well as his principal emotional outlet, his principal form of self-expression, far into the foreseeable future.

Phil’s in the kitchen when Dan enters. He’s got a paper towel in hand, scrubbing at a big ring of reddish-brown ring curry sauce that’s congealed and dried on the countertop. His hair is gathered up and away from his face and he’s traded his black jeans for soft grey sweatpants. Dan thinks they might be his, as he cuts behind Phil and goes quietly to the sink to wash out his bowl.

He wants to say something, to break the silence, or at least to go and hug Phil from behind as he cleans, pillow his face in the soft, worn cotton of his old t-shirt and ask wordlessly for the physical affection he so badly craves when his head gets into this state.

But Phil’s clipped tone from earlier seems to ring in Dan’s ears, so he keeps his distance, equal parts wary and proud.

He’s just appreciating the sharp citrus scent of their dish soap and the pleasant feeling of the warm water across his fingers when Phil walks up beside him, sliding out the drawer for the rubbish bin and tossing his paper towel.

He hip-bumps Dan out of the way and steals the water, washing his hands with the same lemony soap.

“Oh,” Phil pauses as he makes to leave, looking back to Dan, face impassive. “I folded the clothes. Yours are in the white basket on the sofa.”

“Phil.”

Dan pauses. He has no idea what he wants to say, what he’s even feeling right now.

“What?”

“Nothing. Just—I could’ve done it. The clothes I mean,” Dan mumbles.

“Yeah?” and Phil’s just looking at him then, straight on, before raising his brows once, quick and cutting, and then turning to leave again.

It pisses Dan off in an instant, the coldness of it, the apparent indifference that Phil’s wearing all over himself, a lack of emotion that Dan’s tired brain chooses to read as smug superiority.

It fucking pisses him off.

As though Dan’s doing any of this on purpose, as though it’s something he _wants_ , for his brain to work like this, for it to take hours and hours to do the most basic parts of his job, for himself to become useless in his own household and pawn off all of his work onto his fucking boyfriend.

Before he can even process it, he snaps, like he always does in these situations, voice slightly raised, face hot.

“Phil, fucking stop. Talk to me, please. Something’s obviously wrong and I’m not sure what the fuck your problem is. Can you just talk to me?”

“I haven’t got a problem,” says Phil. He’s across the room from Dan now, the length of the table separating them. His arms are crossed as he looks at him, voice perfectly level. Endlessly, infuriatingly calm.

“You haven’t got a problem,” Dan repeats tonelessly, clearly not buying it. 

“I haven’t. Seriously, Dan. It’s just laundry. And it’s just lunch.”

Dan is silent, watching as Phil seems to teeter on the edge of saying more.

“And it was just the dishes the morning, did you remember those?” Dan feels the pressure in his chest increase at Phil’s words. “And the emails all day I’ve had to answer alone.”

Even now, Phil doesn’t look angry, with his smooth brow and only the slightest downward tilt to his lips. His words paired with this dead, neutral expression make Dan feel vaguely ill and hot all over with anger.

“—and all of it is fine, I’m fine with all of it when I know it’s helping you with your work. But after a whole day of it I’m just—tired. And snappish. I can’t help it. Especially when it’s like—“

Phil breaks off then, eyes suddenly darting away and up, avoiding eye contact.

“It’s like? What’s it like, Phil?”

Phil stays silent, fingers fidgeting and shaking just slightly in one of his classic nervous tics.

“Spit it out,” Dan says. "Neither of us have really got time for this, have we?" 

“I dunno, Dan. You’ve been saying you’re looking at memes for three days now. Three days. Just to look through pictures. Are you even halfway done with a script? Are you even trying? To make this easier on yourself?”

The words hit Dan somewhere soft and vulnerable.

 _Are you even trying?_ Phil thinks he’s not trying.

“And you’re not eating,” Phil continues. “Would you have eaten if I hadn’t gotten us food today? When’s the last time you’ve even seen sunlight?”

He feels like he can’t speak at all, let alone muster the energy to answer to this sudden interrogation.

Phil’s face softens. “Don’t, Dan. Don’t look at me like that. Like it brings me any kind of happiness to hurt you or see you like this. I’m just—“

“What, Phil? Worried? Concerned? Or are you just sick of it? Don’t you think I feel all of that and more about myself? If it were just so easy to get better and be better—“

“Stop. I know it’s not easy, I know. That’s not even what I mean. Don’t—“

“No. You stop, Phil.” Dan’s hurting and he’s tired and he’s pissed, and although in one part of his mind he's aware how needlessly dramatic he's being, these emotions are burning him from the inside, so he allows his words to fly untethered. “You stop acting like you know best. Like you have any idea how hard everything fucking is for me some days. Stop acting like you even understand. You don't.”

Dan can see Phil shudder then, physically shaking through his shoulders and chest. He recognizes that this is a ghost of a fight they used to have so much more often, so much more intensely—before. When times were worse, when Dan had no idea who he was or why he deserved any love at all from the man standing in front of him.

“Dan, I love you. Of course I don't fully understand what it's like for you. I'd never try and say I do,” says Phil, voice tired. “You know that. You’re not talking sense.”

He pauses then, like he’s carefully considering his words before he goes on. When he speaks again, it’s slow and deliberate.

“I know I’ve been irritable today. But all I’ve wanted to say—all I’ve been trying to say—is that I wish you would try a bit more, try a bit harder, for your own sake. For both of our sakes. Try to remember that this video doesn’t matter the way you think it does, that it—it’s just a video.”

The more Phil explains, the more it seems to hurt. Dan follows Phil’s lead and pauses to consider his own words, trying to tamp down on his surface-level anger so that he can voice how he’s feeling in a way that Phil will understand.

“When you say that, Phil, all I fucking hear is that I’m too sensitive, I’m too anxious, why can’t my brain work like a normal brain, why can’t I tune out the negative, why do I care so much what other people think?”

Phil is shaking his head, taking off his glasses to rub at his eyes with the heel of his palm. The expression of weariness angers Dan further. He hates this about Phil and always has, how he’ll back down from every fight, lose steam, give up, go soft and lie in wait for Dan, always the angry one, always the unstable one, to come back to earth.

“If it were so easy to change, Phil, I’d change it. You know that. You can’t fucking stop yourself being anxious when you’re on the fucking phone. It’s like that. Why do I even need to explain this to you? Fuck.”

“But I can, Dan, and I work on it. Not being able to talk on the phone frustrates me, so I work on it. I’ve been working on it and getting better at it with time. I do everything I can to tell that voice in my brain to shut up … I did three conference calls alone today, without you.”

“That isn’t—that’s not the fucking point. And stop with the fucking guilt trips for fuck’s—“

Phil’s face changes then, going a bit red, eyes flashing as he interrupts Dan.

“Shut up, Dan. Guilt trips? Why would I guilt trip you? Are you _trying_ to make us fight? Do you want me to fight with you?”

Dan feels a sudden, crazy urge to laugh, thinking about play fights they’ve had in the past, mockingly hitting and wrestling each other to the ground, all while yelling ‘do you wanna fight, bro?’ He momentarily can’t believe they’re in this position right now, Phil’s tone dangerous and audibly upset.

“I don’t want to be angry with you,” Phil continues. “I don’t want you to be angry with me. I’m trying to _help_ you, Dan.”

The words just rankle Dan further. This whole conversation, it's so fucking patronizing. Even as he knows Phil thinks the world of him, he can’t help but see his own glaring weakness reflected back at him in this apparent assumption that he always needs help, that he’s always going to depend on Phil to prop him up.

“Fuck you, Phil,” he says.

Phil sighs and brings his hands up to rub across his eyes again.

“God, Dan,” he says, voice low. “You’re—this. Fine.”

He looks up then and he’s visibly angrier than he’s been all day.

“It’s a fucking youtube video, Dan. One video. Just try and get over whatever it is in your head that’s making it into more than that. Please.”

Phil’s face falls then and he looks sad, hurt, just for a moment, before he returns to something relatively neutral. He crosses the room to stand right in front of Dan. Dan is rooted to the spot, completely unsure as to what Phil intends.

He’s motionless as Phil cups his face gently and pushes his hair up and off of his forehead. Phil leans forward and presses his lips to the skin just above Dan’s eyebrow where his curls lay a moment before.

It’s brief, but sweet. Dan closes his eyes and knows it’s a tiny apology for this moment and these words that have gotten away from both of them.

Then Phil is walking away. Dan feels a sudden rush of worry for his head, prone as it is to stress headaches, as he watches Phil rub at his eyes yet again. He doesn’t walk back to the sofa as Dan expects, but off towards the stairs.

“Where are you going?” Dan asks.

“Out,” says Phil, pausing at the top of the staircase. “Think we both need time. And I want some air. I have my phone. Text me if you need anything.”

“Okay.”

“Love you.”

And with that, Phil’s gone.

**  
Dan has half a mind to clean every surface of the kitchen and the lounge, maybe even their bedroom, and then to make Phil’s favorite savory stir-fry.

To apologize? Out of spite? Is he still mad at Phil or just mad at himself? He's not even sure.

But he hates that anything he does right now will seem like a product of being reprimanded, as if he would have stayed the course of idle uselessness for who knows how many more hours had it not been for Phil's chastisement and intervention. As if he’s proving Phil’s point.

He punches into the furry ottoman at his feet out of sheer frustration and slumps back into the sofa, pulling the quilt around him angrily.

What he hates more is this feeling, heavy and nauseating in the pit of his stomach, and an instinctive byproduct of his anger—that sinking feeling wherein his brain keeps telling him that he and Phil aren't on the same team, that they don't want the same things for each other and themselves. He hates that some small part of him, however infinitesimal, believes even now that Phil is tired of him and his lack of progress in this, believes that Phil is lashing out with a very real desire to knock Dan down to some dark and mean place he rightly deserves.

That feeling, the general self-doubt and self-loathing with Phil as the source, all of it is so disorienting and feels so fundamentally wrong. Because after years and years of being shown it over and over and over again, he knows with nearly unwavering certainty that Phil loves him.

The instinctive truth of that helps to temper his residual anger. He has to trust in Phil, trust that he's trying his best to understand and help, that he truly wants the best for Dan. Because of course he does. That, and little else, has been the sole constant for the greater part of the last decade of Dan's life.

Dan turns so that he’s lying on his side and pushes his face into the rough grey fabric of the sofa. How many nights have they dozed off just like this, he thinks, entangled in each other, listening to the low hum of the television, watching its bluish light flicker and color each others’ faces. Far too tired to move, too tired for any real words, but awake enough to whisper nonsense, giggle softly against each others' lips.

He misses Phil all of a sudden and he feels it like physical loss. It almost makes him laugh, the sheer, pathetic absurdity. Phil’s probably been gone all of twenty minutes.

It used to keep him up into the depths of the night, this fear of needing Phil so much. It took him so long to differentiate between the fear of loving Phil and the fear of losing him. But it was the fear of loss all along, a sharp awareness that if they lost each other, they’d lose everything, this life-changing love, the relative stability of their lives, an audience that's only ever been able to see them as a singular unit.

Lucky for them, that's exactly what they are.

He rolls over, takes out his phone, and texts Phil _stay warm_ with the black heart emoji and tosses his phone aside, heading into the kitchen to start making dinner.

**  
Dan is hunched over his laptop again, this time at the dining table in the kitchen, when Phil comes up the stairs.

He hears the telltale thumps on the steps and smiles softly at Phil as he appears at the top of the staircase and immediately crosses the room to Dan.

Phil’s still in his coat, the thick one with the lovely black fur along the hood that Dan had picked out for him and nagged him to purchase, insistent that he should have at least one coat with a little bit of edge.

He stands as Phil draws near and, without hesitation, steps into Phil’s space and his open arms, tucking his face against the rough and freezing cold surface of his coat.

“Didn’t hear you come in,” Dan says quietly, cherishing Phil's tight hold, the feeling of his cheek pressing against his hair. “Glad you’re back.”

Phil loosens his grasp a bit and steps back, one arm still draped over Dan’s shoulder, the other holding up a Starbucks cup with a wry little smile.

“For you,” he says.

Dan smiles back, taking the cup from Phil and opening up the lid to find some sort of fragrant green tea. He replaces the lid and gently sets the cup down on the table and hugs Phil again.

“Mm,” he hears Phil hum softly. “You’re warm.”

Phil pulls back again, only to lean forward and press his lips to Dan’s in a long kiss, firm but lingering.

“Sorry,” he whispers against Dan’s lips. “I’m sorry, Dan.”

“I know you are,” Dan says, as he reaches down to unzip Phil’s jacket and slide it off his shoulders. He hangs the discarded coat on the back of one of the chairs. “I’m sorry too. I’ve even made dinner.”

Phil laughs a bit at that, and it warms Dan from the inside. “You know you didn’t—“

“Course I know I didn’t,” Dan interrupts, leading Phil by hand towards the stove. “But I wanted to. I’m sorry for being a right fucking dick earlier when you were just trying to express your concern or whatever.”

As much as he tries, there’s still a creeping bit of irritation in his tone. He squeezes a bit at Phil’s hand, hoping to mask it.

“Don’t do that, Dan,” says Phil, voice gone low. “Don’t just brush over what you felt or feel. And I didn’t need to ‘express my concern’ to you like you’re some sort of fragile flower or some kind of burden—“

“But I _was_ a burden today—“

“And I could’ve been better with talking to you about it. I could’ve been more patient. I could’ve not made it about me. I could’ve chosen better words that didn’t make you feel like shit. I’m sorry.”

Dan just stays quiet a moment, scanning Phil’s face. They’re stood by the stove now, still holding hands, Phil’s thumb rubbing gently across the back of Dan’s hand. Phil looks completely regretful, eyebrows upturned in worry, eyes big and so, so blue, even behind his glasses, as he gazes back at Dan.

“It’s just me, Phil. You shouldn’t have to be—you shouldn’t need to double check your words and only say things the right way every time. It’s just me.”

Phil is quiet, so Dan leans in to kiss him again, soft and gentle, again and again and again. He lets the hand that isn’t still holding onto Phil’s fingers come up to cup his face, the tips of his fingers brushing through Phil’s hair.

“I lost my fucking temper even though I knew you were right. Probably _because_ I knew you were right and that’s exactly what I didn’t want to hear right then.”

Phil sighs and says quietly, “I just hate hurting you and I know I did today. I hate it. There’s no excuse. I’m sorry.”

Before Dan can say anything, Phil leans forward so his head is resting on Dan’s shoulder. Dan looks down into the mop of shiny black and presses a kiss to it.

They stay like that for a moment, or several, breathing quiet and slow.

“I think this is the most we’ve ever talked after a fight in like a million years,” says Phil.

Dan laughs. “Obviously therapy’s done a number on both of our heads.”

Phil starts laughing too. There's a note of finality to it, like they've said all they've needed to say for now. Maybe they'll revisit tonight or tomorrow or weeks from now, but in this precise moment, they're steady and anchored to each other, as ever. 

Dan gently pushes Phil back to standing and lets him go, turning to the wok on the stove to start plating their food.

“Stir-fry!” says Phil excitedly, tongue poking out between his teeth as he smiles at Dan. He leans over and gives Dan a big wet kiss on his cheek.

Dan pretends to gag, shoving him away.

He serves them up the stir-fry with fresh white rice. Phil pours them water and Ribena, Dan grabs the tea Phil brought him, and they take all of it to the lounge on a big wooden tray. Despite their advancing years and this very adult flat, they can’t seem to ditch some of their oldest habits. Watching television with dinner on the sofa has been one of their most sacred since the very beginning.

“What shall we watch tonight, Daniel?” says Phil, reaching for the remote.

“Anything,’ says Dan. He honestly doesn’t even give a shit if that means one of Phil’s trashy reality tv shows.

He sits down on his end of the sofa and opens the lid of the tea, enjoying the steam as it wafts across his face. “Your choice.”

Phil just looks at him and smiles—in it Dan sees the years they’ve spent together, growing, changing, but always, always, getting through it. Together.


End file.
